


multiple choice, open response

by bendingsignpost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Double Penetration, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Fuckbuddies, Illusions, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, References to Addiction, Rimming, Sex Toys, Tricksters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Sam has always tested well.(divergent from season five)





	multiple choice, open response

Maybe it starts two days after their sojourn in TV Land, when Gabriel slides into their diner booth with no warning, no grin, and says, “I won’t kill him, but I can trap him.”

 

Maybe it starts a couple months after that, after Famine dangles temptation in front of Sam’s nose and Sam drinks it right up. Because there’s something about the agony of withdrawal that destroys an already short temper, and there’s definitely something to it when a smirking archangel lets a human shove him, and shove him, and _slam_ him against an iron wall.

 

It’s probably already started a couple hours after that, with Gabriel needling him through the self-recriminations, through the writhing pain in his skull and the drought in his mouth. Gabriel mocks him, interrupts every conversation with something that isn’t there, and openly laughs at him when he tries to wallow in his mistakes. “Even _my_ Dad royally fucked up. Who are you trying to be, Sammy?” he jibes.

 

(Maybe it started when Sam tracked a monster for six months and begged for his brother back, but he doesn’t like to think about that. Not those empty months, and not the resigned pity on the monster’s face, something too close to compassion for comfort.)

 

It’s definitely starting by the time Sam’s through detox, because while Gabriel’s escalating distraction tactics might be unorthodox, they’re certainly effective. It’s the most obnoxious game of gay chicken Sam’s ever played, the most blatant he’s ever seen, and he spends his days around his brother and Castiel. It’s a smart move, if a childish one, because Sam would rather break his hand punching Gabriel in the face than accept comfort, but this, this isn’t comfort. This is sarcasm and fucking. This is his body draped over another in exhaustion.

 

It’s also excruciatingly embarrassing when Dean and Castiel rip open the safe room door at Sam’s cries of a less-than-pained nature. Dean’s mortified, Cas just turns around and leaves, possibly for forever, and Sam discovers that when an archangel’s riding his dick into a shaking cot, it feels _even better_ when the archangel is cracking up laughing.

 

Still fully clothed – except for his dick hidden up Gabriel’s ass – Sam laughs too. Despite the chaos of his brain, the agony of his body and the sheer, unadulterated embarrassment overwhelming even the guilt, Sam laughs.

 

So, yeah. That might be where it starts.

 

Or maybe it’s the next week, searching for leads on Pestilence and Death, when it happens again without the excuse of extremely unethical medical intervention. Gabriel keeps reading out bits from some ridiculous magazine with UFOs and Elvis sightings, and when Sam asks him to stop, Gabriel demands an alternative form of entertainment. Sam pats his own lap with a raised eyebrow. Half an hour later, Gabriel’s reading aloud again, but it was good while it lasted. Sam minds him less anyway, after.

 

Maybe it’s the week after that, when Gabriel lets himself be shut up with a make-out session. Orgasms are had by absolutely no one, and it’s still the most intimate Sam’s been since, well. It’s intimate. It’s definitely started by then, established in teasingly swapped kisses and the remarkably sincere question of “You like that, huh?”

 

The day Gabriel vanishes and returns hours later with Death’s ring, it’s not just started, it’s fully underway. Because Gabriel tosses the ring down on Dean’s motel bed, casual as you please, and announces, “A little out of order, not saving the biggest and baddest for last, but hey, I’m unpredictable. You’re welcome.”

 

“You killed Death?” Dean asks, sounding doubtful even as he grabs up the ring. “Is that even possible?”

 

Sam shuts his laptop and goes over to investigate. “You cut his finger off?”

 

“Nope!” Gabriel declares, popping the _p_. “I asked nicely, you barbarians. We ate, like, five vending machines together, it was awesome. We’re totes besties now. Deep-fried Mars bar?” he offers, pulling one out of his jacket and offering it to Sam.

 

“No thanks.”

 

“Heathen.” Gabriel tosses it to Dean instead, who, gross, actually eats it.

 

“Sweet,” Dean says, maybe about the snack, maybe about the situation.

 

Sam takes issue with Gabriel’s claims then and there, but he sits on them until later. Cas has started actually needing to sleep, and absolutely no one talks about how the room assignments get divvied up. There are things Gabriel can fix, like Bobby’s legs, and there are things he can’t, like Cas’ mojo. Which just reinforces Sam’s point, even before he makes it: Gabriel has limits.

 

“What did you really say to Death?” Sam asks, getting undressed for the night one layer at a time.

 

Sprawled across the armchair in the corner of the room, legs over one arm, head nearly bumping against the floor lamp on the other side, Gabriel picks at invisible dirt under his fingernails. “What, you want the court transcripts, kiddo?”

 

“Just wondering how you convinced, y’know. Death incarnate.”

 

“By being awesome?” Gabriel spreads his hands in an obvious _duh_ gesture.

 

“So, spill,” Sam encourages. He sits down on the bed to tug off his shoes. “Tell me about your might and glory.”

 

“Sarcasm is really unbecoming on you,” Gabriel replies. “You should really leave it to us experts.”

 

Sam just shrugs, still fiddling with his shoelaces. “I’m curious.”

 

Gabriel folds his hands behind his head. “Told him if he didn’t want to be treated like my brother’s little bitch, he should donate to the cause, that’s all.”

 

Shoe in hand, Sam holds back a stare. “You called Death a little bitch.”

 

“No, I said he was being _treated_ like a little bitch,” Gabriel corrects. “Don’t be rude, Sammich.”

 

“And that’s all it took?”

 

“Look, those other three Horsemen?” Gabriel says. “Oh, sure, they pack some punch, but they’re hitching their carts to Lucifer’s horse, to completely confuse a metaphor. Death, though? Wow, is _he_ peeved.”

 

“Enough to help us.”

 

“Enough to help himself.” Gabriel shrugs like he doesn’t care, like the distinction isn’t important. Like Sam doesn’t know him well enough to tell.

 

Except he does. Because it’s already happened, maybe a week ago, maybe months ago:

 

Sam’s invested.

 

It’s not the same as being attached. It’s nothing like being affectionate. It’s the niggling at the back of the skull. It’s an itch under the skin. It’s the driving force that keeps people up all hours of the night, screaming into the void because someone is wrong on the internet.

 

It’s one of the motivations that makes Sam Winchester do stupid things.

 

“So what’s the part you’re not saying?” Sam asks.

 

Gabriel looks over at him, one eyebrow raised.

 

“You wouldn’t be this blasé if you weren’t rattled,” Sam reasons. “So, what’s the part you’re not saying?”

 

“Wow,” Gabriel says. “Arrogant much?”

 

Sam raises an eyebrow in reply and makes himself remove his other sock.

 

Gabriel swings his legs off the chair’s arm, sets them against floor, and lounges in the armchair as if seated in a mighty throne. “You presume to know an archangel. Pride’s one of the big ones, kiddo.”

 

“So are gluttony and lust,” Sam counters. “Doesn’t seem to slow you down.”

 

Gabriel’s eyebrows only rise higher. “ _Comparing_ yourself to an archangel now.” He whistles low. “Now that’s something else.”

 

“Not my fault two of you want me for my body,” Sam says, pulling off his t-shirt for emphasis. Gabriel looks, because Gabriel always looks, even if it is to make a face like he’s not at all interested. “Death, though, what did he say?”

 

“Stripping and death talk: mixed signals much?”

 

“Stop trying to distract me,” Sam tells him. A small part of his brain screams out that he’s casually ordering around a being almost as old as the planet itself, if not older, something capable of creating pocket universes and altering timelines. Even more alarmingly, a larger part of his brain argues that it’s probably fine. That’s not a good sign, but it whips right past him like a marker on the highway falling away courtesy of Dean’s lead foot.

 

Sam stands up, unzips his fly, and shimmies his jeans off with a level of casualness that ought to shock him. Ought to, but doesn’t.

 

A lot of bad signs, all blurring in the rear-view mirror, but he’s strangely unworried, now that he knows where he’s going.

 

“Me distract you?” Gabriel’s eyes flick down Sam’s body before working their way back up. It’s an indulgent meander, glacially slow, volcano hot. The fact that those two descriptors could very easily be literal at the snap of Gabriel’s fingers only has Sam standing taller, straighter, shoulders squared. He keeps his expression bland – he tries to keep his expression bland – but knows the flush on his chest is already giving him away. Especially when Gabriel licks his lips. “I think it’s the other way around.”

 

“I know what you’re doing,” Sam tells him, not saying _no_.

 

“If you hadn’t figured it out by now, you’d be a lost cause,” Gabriel replies, eyes dropping to Sam’s boxer-clad crotch. He leans forward in the armchair, rocking forward like he was nearly about to stand, and the aborted motion is all the more eye-catching on such a deliberate body.

 

“It’s something big, isn’t it,” Sam reasons.

 

He immediately realizes what he’s said. Focused on one thing and distracted by another, which is a completely valid excuse that he can already see Gabriel waving away.

 

Gabriel hums, a smug “Mm, mm, _mmm,_ ” while glancing down at his own lap. “Yes, I do believe it is.”

 

“I’ve had bigger,” Sam counters mildly. Boxers versus fully dressed, human against angel, standing before the seat of power; the underdog position makes him mouthy.

 

Gabriel smirks with his mouth while something else dances in his eyes.

 

Very carefully, Sam doesn’t take a step back. “I think you want to tell me.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Gabriel says with his best bored face. “The evidence behind your deranged theory?”

 

“You’re deflecting, but you’re not telling me to drop it,”Sam reasons. “And you’ve never had a problem telling me no. So, yeah, I think you want to tell me, at least a little.”

 

“Because you know me so well.” The face is still bored. The voice, not at all, and it carries a warning that it could become even less.

 

“I hunted you for the better part of a year,” Sam points out. He has to clear his throat first, but at least his boxers are still enough to hide the beginnings of his reaction.

 

“Oh, wow,” Gabriel drawls, mouthing the syllables like a particularly good lollipop. “A _year_.”

 

Sam refuses to be deterred. “I’m a quick study.”

 

Gabriel shakes his smirking head. “No one’s that quick.”

 

“I am,” Sam says, and it’s not a boast.

 

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

 

“Glad you agree.”

 

Gabriel snorts. “How’s this: if you can prove you know me so well, I’ll tell you all the boring little nitty gritty details of my tete-a-tete with Death. Deal?”

 

“Think I know better than to go around making deals blindly,” Sam says. He picks up his clothes to stick them in his bag, and maybe there’s a little more bending over than is strictly called for, but not much.

 

“Do I look like a demon to you?”

 

“No, you’re more dangerous,” Sam tells him, and Gabriel _preens_. Smug grin, head tilted ever so slightly. He clasps his hands around his knee and Sam’s brain stutters at the attempt to form the word _adorable_.

 

“Damn right,” Gabriel says. “Besides, we both know that’s not the way you want to eat me.”

 

Sam glares, zipping his bag shut.

 

“What, too soon? Or is telling the truth too inappropriate these days?”

 

“What’re your conditions?” Sam asks in return.

 

Gabriel taps his chin, making a big show of thinking out something he’s clearly already thought through. It’s not quite Frankenfurter levels of antici- _pation_ , but it’s close. “Just to go easy on you,” he drawls, “let’s make it a multiple choice question.”

 

“Okay,” Sam says, dropping his bag from bed to floor. He has a sense they’re about to need the space. “What’s–”

 

In the moment he’d looked down, Gabriel has vanished.

 

“Behind you,” Gabriel says.

 

Sam turns, and Gabriel’s sprawled out on the bed, lazy and lounging, as artfully arranged as a statue of a tiger.

 

“Or am I?” Gabriel asks, voice close, lips brushing the back of Sam’s neck. Sam’s eyes still locked with the figure on the bed, Sam freezes at the hot line of a fabric-covered body pressing up against him from behind. Hands settle on his hips and Sam grabs hold of them immediately. They’re warm and firm, as flesh and blood as Gabriel ever is.

 

“Maybe neither,” Gabriel adds, voice coming from the bathroom door despite his breath warming Sam’s shoulder. It’s a damp, tingling heat, normally distracting. Now, it’s barely a footnote in the tome of stimulus.

 

Sam twists, looking around the rest of the room – abandoned armchair, cramped desk, token attempt at a kitchenette – and the count remains at three. “I’ve seen through your illusions before,” he says and is almost surprised when a fourth Gabriel doesn’t appear in response to Sam’s claim of confidence.

 

Instead, Gabriel chuckles darkly against his shoulder blade and, across the room, pushes off from the bathroom door frame. On the bed, Gabriel watches with dark eyes and the merest pretense of a smirk. “You wanna take your pick now, then?” he asks, drawing up to Sam’s side. From behind, he nudges Sam in a slight turn, maneuvers to better put him on display for the other two.

 

“I want ground rules,” Sam replies, voice remarkably steady.

 

“Of course,” the Gabriel on the bed replies.

 

“It’s the rules that make the game,” that Gabriel says in unison with the Gabriel beside Sam.

 

“Tell you what,” he continues, a single voice against Sam’s back. He threads his fingers through Sam’s, effectively trapping his hands against his own hips. Yeah: definitely on display. “You can even make them up. Within reason.”

 

“Because you’re so reasonable,” Sam shoots back, choosing to address this to the closest Gabriel he can actually look in the eyes, the Gabriel from the bathroom doorway.

 

“You’re the one who’s supposed to know that, O Expert Of Me,” Gabriel retorts from the bed. He flops over and kicks his shoes off, lying on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands, feet in the air.

 

“Rule one,” Sam says. “You don’t lie about the outcome.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” The Gabriel beside him waves a dismissive hand. “I won’t be a sore loser if you won’t.”

 

“Rule two, no time limit. I get to figure it out in my own time.”

 

Gabriel chuckles against him, even _sounding_ like dark chocolate. “Let’s see how long you can manage that.” He scrapes his teeth against Sam’s spine, and Sam’s chin jerks up as his back fights to arch. Without pause, the Gabriel beside him moves into the opened space, mouth fitting smoothly against Sam’s neck.

 

“No, uh, no time limit,” Sam insists, tilting his head back farther. One of the hands restraining him travels upward, threading through his hair to help with that particular motion. Sam’s free hand shoots up to hold the back of Gabriel’s head, the Gabriel in front of him who has put lips and tongue and teeth to other uses than speech.

 

“Oh, that’s fine,” Gabriel says from the bed, watching with his typical bedroom combination of lust and mischief. “But speaking of deals and demons, I think it’s only fair we decide the outcome with a kiss. First one you kiss on the mouth is your final answer.”

 

Sam tries to nod, but all that happens is this twisting bob of the head, tilting to the side as Gabriel works from pulse point to pulse point. Behind him, Gabriel presses tight against him, burgeoning erection pushing against where thigh becomes ass. “I can, yeah, I can live with that.”

 

“Can you?” Gabriel asks from behind him. Lips leave his throat, pink already turning to red, and the hand in Sam’s hair lets up to allow him to look down. Gabriel leans up against his front, so close their noses deliberately brush. “You do love to suck face, kiddo.”

 

“You’re the one with the oral fixation,” Sam counters as reasonably as he can, not staring as Gabriel wets his lips.

 

“So, two rules and a winning condition,” Gabriel announces from the bed, no longer kicking his feet through the air like a teenage girl in a movie writing in her diary. Instead, there’s a line of force in his body – force, not tension – that push his hips down against the bed. “That all you wanted?”

 

“If the winning condition is a kiss,” Sam says, takes two tries to say, “you have to stay tangible. Somewhere I can reach you.”

 

On the bed, Gabriel makes a face like this was exactly the kind of cheating he’d been planning. “Tangible, in the room, fine. I reserve rights to all other shenanigans, though.”

 

“Such as?”

 

Gabriel’s pout intensifies. “That would be telling.”

 

“Such as?” Sam insists, turning his attention back on the angel – copy? – standing in front of him. He has both of his hands free now and uses them to push off Gabriel’s over-shirt. Partially for the increased nudity, partially for the distinction when they start moving. And they will start moving. It’s a shell game if Sam’s ever seen one, and he’s still not sure which one is the starting cup.

 

Gabriel switches to a grin so fast, his mouth ought to get whiplash. He sets his hands on Sam’s shoulders even as his hands – from behind – lightly scratch from chest to belly. Sam’s body tries to wriggle without permission, and Gabriel grins wider. “Look down.”

 

Sam looks, and – nothing. Faint red lines drawing themselves as his skin changes from a pressed white to a flushed pink.

 

He freezes.

 

“Sam?” Gabriel asks. Not mocking and nowhere close to cloying concern. Not even close to concern, period, and a wave of gratitude splashes over Sam so quickly and inexplicably he nearly chokes on it.

 

The word pops out all the same: “Hellhounds.”

 

Abruptly, the hands folded over his stomach become visible. The mouth at the back of his neck resumes its previous activities, and it’s hard not to relax into it. “I can’t smell _that_ bad,” Gabriel complains.

 

“You smell like enough chocolate to kill a hellhound,” Sam shoots back.

 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Gabriel says, looking way too serious about the thought. “I should try that one of these days. Should be good for a laugh.”

 

“Thought you liked animals,” Sam says, and he doesn’t think it an odd thing to say until Gabriel frowns at him, his face almost elastic in transition from one emotion to another. Again, the neck-molesting pauses.

 

“What gave you that idea?” Gabriel asks both from behind him and from the bed.

 

“You killed a man for testing on animals,” Sam points out, refusing to be disturbed by the stereo effect. “Sewer gator attack?”

 

“I’ve killed people for lots of things,” Gabriel answers from in front of him, expression just slightly stiffer. “But unless that’s your idea of sexy talk, you’re ruining the mood.” A bite to his shoulder from behind, and the hands over his stomach resume their circling.

 

“I thought I was having a test.”

 

“Uh, I can _multitask_ ,” Gabriel tells him, offended to the point of nipple-pinching. Hard, because he knows Sam’s not sensitive there, because the pain isn’t a turn-off, because apparently they’ve been fucking long enough that this is just something that happens. He pinches and _twists_ and pushes, and his body behind Sam takes Sam’s weight easily, arms wrapping tight around his waist in a hold both possessive and temptingly close to his crotch. Sam’s chest sings with the pain while his knees forget themselves.

 

“Also,” Gabriel whispers in his ear from behind, breath hot through his hair, “invisibility is awesome and you’re an idiot if you don’t think so.”

 

Sam tilts his head and there’s nothing there to be seen behind him, an entire body of cloth-hidden heat holding him up and Sam can’t see a thing.

 

“Not my fault your eyeballs don’t understand the whole light spectrum,” Gabriel says from in front of him again and, oh, fuck, the one on the bed has vanished, too.

 

“I’m not playing Hide and Go Seek during sex,” Sam tells him immediately.

 

Because Gabriel is an asshole, he says, “It’s called Hide and Go Sex, Sammy, everyone knows that.”

 

“Not playing,” Sam insists.

 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll just have to put a different stick up your ass.”

 

Because Sam is also an asshole, he responds by widening his stance. Bending the knees a little bit more, tilting his ass in a little backwards roll. An appreciative groan shakes into his ear out of thin air, followed by a murmur of, “Good to see you agree.”

 

Despite the attentions of the body behind him, Sam resumes his initial line of thought and likewise resumes disrobing the Gabriel in front of him. “You’re overdressed,” he comments, not complains.

 

Gabriel snaps his fingers and is abruptly down to just his jeans. Denim scratches at the insides of Sam’s thighs, an itch his knees want to solve by snapping together. Normally an untenable solution, normally a move that would drop him on his ass, but there might as well be a wall behind him right now. In a move more akin to a trust fall than a sex act, Sam clamps his thighs tight around Gabriel’s, his balance as fucked as he knows he’ll soon be, and Gabriel does not disappoint.

 

Gabriel grins, leers, a face full of perversion and amusement, and he _shoves_ Sam’s chest with his own, hands tight against the curve of Sam’s ass. Behind Sam, Gabriel’s arms tighten, his stance widens, and his hands slide down to grip the insides of Sam’s thighs. Chest to bare chest, back to clothed chest; on either side, a pair of grasping hands framing a nudging erection. In unison, on either side of his neck, mouths descend, licking and sucking and biting, and Sam lets out a noise that can’t embarrass him anymore, not after Gabriel’s heard it so many times. He grabs back, one arm wrapped around the shoulders before him, one hand reaching back, wrapping around the back of Gabriel’s head to press his mouth closer, hotter, harder.

 

Without warning, an unseen hand threads through his hair. It’s barely a tug, not even a pull, but Sam still shouts, hips straining to jerk forward despite two pairs of inhumanly strong hands restraining him. The motion only drives those hands tighter against his boxer-clad ass, only digs fingertips harder into the bare skin between his thighs.

 

“Say it,” Gabriel commands with the one mouth not currently pressed against Sam’s skin. His voice comes from the empty space on Sam’s right, and Sam releases the Gabriel behind him to better grasp the one formerly on the bed. He starts with the unseen hand in his hair, the invisible wrist, the arm, finds the shoulder and holds tight.

 

“Say it,” that invisible Gabriel repeats, his free hand pulling Sam’s off his equally invisible shirt. Sam’s fingers immediately find themselves in a hot, wet mouth, and it’s the hip twitch all over again, erection against erection, ass against dick.

 

“You gonna spit roast me?” Sam asks, voice low and deep and hoarse.

 

Gabriel laughs, a disconcerting combination of snickering against his neck and a deep belly laugh as the invisible one releases his fingers and allows himself to come into view. “Maaaaaybe,” he drawls, petting Sam’s hair away from his ears to give the other two better access. Sam’s breath stutters, but all that comes is a set of teeth resting lightly against either earlobe, no sucking, no tongue. “Not what I meant, though.”

 

One side, and then the other: the scrape of a promise of reward. The staggered temptation only serves to underscore it. Gabriel smirks, eyebrows waggling.

 

Sam swallows hard. “Okay, yeah, fine. Invisibility is awesome.”

 

“So sincere.” Despite the complaint, the Gabriel behind him starts sucking on his right earlobe, and Sam’s head tilts into it inexorably.

 

“Then convince me,” Sam challenges, as challenging as a man can be while sandwiched, head lolling, ass massaged, dick rubbed and rubbed and _teased_ through too much clothing.

 

“Can do,” Gabriel replies. He’s moved on from petting Sam’s hair to stroking fingertips over his lips, never quite giving Sam something to kiss or bite or suck. “So, that all the rules you want?”

 

Sam forces his eyes open, abruptly not sure when he’d closed them. “What?”

 

“Game hasn’t started yet, kiddo.”

 

The lust lethargy shakes out of him immediately. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

“Nah, only fucking you,” Gabriel promises. “Three rules: no lying, no time limit, no going beyond your pathetic mortal reach. Kiss the right specimen of ineffable perfection to win. Sound about right?”

 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Sam claims, breath hitching.

 

“Sure you can,” says the Gabriel not wrapped around him, and the other two smack kisses on his cheeks in unison. It’s fluid, seamless: one being in three bodies. His control over the three appears to be identical, so Sam has to keep his eyes on something else.

 

So far, the roles:

 

The Gabriel initially on the bed has done most of the talking and most of the looking.

 

The Gabriel from the bathroom doorway, now shirtless, comes in second.

 

The Gabriel behind him has been largely a supporting role, so it’s probably not that one. That’s not the way Gabriel double-bluffs.

 

“Time for a closer inspection,” Sam tells them – him – Gabriel as he eases the body pressed against his front to stand half a step away. The distance is only to reposition, so he can lean forward, lean down, and fit his mouth to the side of this Gabriel’s neck. He sucks and licks and bites, pushing away the sense memories of something far more bloody, focusing on a different kind of need.

 

Behind him, Gabriel drapes himself over his back, uses the bend of Sam’s stance to tug Sam’s hips farther back, to stick Sam’s ass out more. He begins to kiss along Sam’s spine, a tactile countdown, and Sam hurries at leaving the hickey. With one final nip, he pulls back to look at it, faint and purpling but noticeable on the right side of Gabriel’s neck.

 

“Keep that,” he tells the marked Gabriel, already pulling the Gabriel from the bed closer. The left side of the neck this time, a deeper purple, even though Sam meant to use the same pressure, the same technique. While the Gabriel under his mouth groans appreciatively and holds him in place with a fist in his hair, the slight variation from the first doesn’t mean much.

 

Especially not when the right-marked Gabriel leans in to murmur, “If you wanted marks to stay, you should have made that a rule.”

 

It’s hard to reply when the Gabriel behind him finally drops to his knees, bypassing the more interesting areas to mouth at the back of Sam’s thighs, fingers just barely sneaking up the legs of his boxers. “I,” Sam says, then swallows. “It’s above the collar.” Has to be, for the second Gabriel. The left-marked Gabriel.

 

“So?” all three ask in unison, one amused, one bored, one both.

 

Sam tries to stand properly to look at his handiwork, but it’s difficult for a number of reasons. He supports himself with a hand on either Gabriel in front of him. “It’ll annoy Dean,” he points out, and is immediately greeted by matching grins.

 

“Well...” the left-marked drawls out.

 

“In that case...” the right-marked continues.

 

With the duo act in front of him, Sam really ought to have been expecting having his boxers yanked down from behind, but in his defense: Gabriel.

 

For all his speed, Gabriel does him the very much appreciated courtesy of pulling his waistband over his erection and not straight down. A slow, teasing tug over straining flesh is one thing, but that would have been another.

 

Left-marked Gabriel drops to his knees as well, and, leaning on one of his shoulders, Sam half-stumbles into a blowjob. Three hands catch his hips, a fourth closing around the base of his dick just as a mouth closes over the head. Sam swears hard, a single percussive “Fuck!” and that’s _before_ the tongue flicks over his asshole.

 

His knees buckle and it doesn’t even matter. All it does is put more pressure on his ass, Sam abruptly sitting on impossibly steady hands. He’s held up between them, between left-marked and unmarked, a mouth on either side, tongues, _fuck_ , tongues circling in opposite directions. Toying with the slit of his dick, playing with his rim, both at once. His legs shake with the struggle to stand again, or maybe to thrust, or maybe to rock back. He’d spread his own ass cheeks, but Gabriel’s already on top of it. Sam’s throat clicks, his head trying to throw itself back.

 

“Looking a little distracted there, aren’t we?” says right-marked Gabriel, idling touching his own bare chest. Slight role change, Sam notes a little desperately. Participant to observer. Still more likely than the unmarked Gabriel.

 

Except, no, unmarked Gabriel is steadily working his way up to a tongue inside Sam’s ass, and Sam has to kiss him on the mouth to win: it completely fits Gabriel’s sense of body humor. They’re still all equally likely. The Gabriel teasing just the head of his dick while gripping the base just shy of too tight, the Gabriel running the tip of his tongue in spiraling circles around the center of his ass, the Gabriel watching with heated eyes and only the fading hint of a smirk.

 

“Sam,” that last Gabriel says, a little more insistently.

 

“Y-yeah?”

 

“You still paying attention?”

 

“Yes,” Sam gasps. He fights to stand again, and maybe he’s using left-marked Gabriel’s head to steady himself, maybe he’s trying to shove more of his dick between those lips, but, as always, Gabriel doesn’t budge when he doesn’t want to. Sam threads one hand through his hair anyway, less for the illusion of control and more because it’s _soft_. His other hand reaches, and right-marked Gabriel allows himself to be summoned closer.

 

“C’mere, lean forward,” Gabriel instructs, and Sam allows himself to be manhandled – angelhandled – into position, forehead against bare shoulder, ass on display, dick sweetly tormented between mouth and hands. “That’s it,” Gabriel says, low and deep and pleased, and that’s when the tip of his tongue switches from tracing shapes to _pushing_. Hot and wet and only faintly stretching, so hot and wet and accompanied by warm breath and lightly scraping teeth. Fingers dig into his ass, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to turn every chair and diner booth into a reminder of _this_.

 

His legs won’t hold his weight, but he tries to spread them anyway. “ _Yes_ ,” he agrees.

 

“Sidetracked,” Gabriel singsongs next to his ear.

 

“No, uh, no time limit,” Sam manages to say, voice hitching as Gabriel’s tongue works its way deeper. It’s barely anything in terms of depth, not yet, but it’s going to be. Tongues, then fingers, then the stretch that still sends his brain flying back to college dorm rooms and the cheap condoms from the health center.

 

“Only if you’re okay not coming,” Gabriel tells him, nipping his ear. “No kissing, no coming.”

 

He shakes his head, intentionally flopping his hair in Gabriel’s face. “Not the rule.”

 

Gabriel responds with a good, long suck on his dick and another, almost just as good, on the pucker of his asshole. Orgasm comes rushing up only to smack into a tingling, cheating wall. Sam shouts, held there, suspended in so many ways, and Gabriel smirks back, their noses almost brushing, close enough for a kiss. For a surrender. For Sam to drop the subject and concede defeat in exchange for an orgy.

 

“Doesn’t have to be a rule to happen,” Gabriel says. His voice feigns innocence, but his face doesn’t even bother pretending.

 

“Still playing,” Sam swears. He drops his head, kissing clavicles, sucking with the intent to provoke rather than mark. He reaches down, touches his own spit-slick member between Gabriel’s hand and mouth, and uses that dampness to thumb at right-marked Gabriel’s nipples. No matter how Gabriel controls his responses, he’s sensitive there, has to be. Otherwise, he wouldn’t play with Sam’s so much.

 

He gets a satisfying groan for his efforts, another kiss on the cheek. This one isn’t sarcastic: it’s a substitute. Normally, their mouths would be locked together by this point, the air from Gabriel’s lungs perpetually fresh with oxygen, almost too much so. One firm kiss now, then a smattering, the side of his face peppered with almost chaste attention even as Gabriel’s tongue gives a particularly lewd wriggle up his ass, even as his mouth works down Sam’s dick to meet the hand working the base.

 

Again, his orgasm rears up only to be smacked back down and told to wait its turn. Sam makes a noise more like a curse than a whimper, but it’s definitely a bit of both.

 

“Lemme touch you,” he half-slurs, chest heaving. He’ll experiment, find a way to tell them apart.

 

With his mouth against Sam’s dick, Gabriel hums. Against Sam’s hole, he adds, “Mm, please do,” before pressing in and in and _in._

 

Speech doesn’t resume for some time. When it does, it resurfaces as protest. “No,” Sam says. “No, you, no.”

 

Gabriel pops off and looks up at him, eyes dark, lips wet and red, and it’s surreal as Sam would expect, resting his forehead on Gabriel’s shoulder while, at the same time, looking down into Gabriel’s upturned face. “No?” Gabriel repeats, as if having thought for a single instant that Sam wanted the oral attention to stop. His ass clenches against nothing, wet and strangely empty.

 

“Lemme,” Sam tries to order, but while his brain might still be phrasing things correctly, his mouth can’t seem to follow.

 

“Oh, _you_ want to suck _me,_ ” Gabriel exclaims. “Why didn’t you say so?”

 

“You know,” Sam manages to say, and the unmarked Gabriel behind him snorts.

 

Right-marked Gabriel hooks his fingers under Sam’s chin and lifts his face. _Hint!_ screams Sam’s mind. _Preferred eyes for eye contact!_ He needs more evidence, but it’s a hint, it’s something, and he holds onto it tightly even as the downstairs action resumes and nearly shakes the thought loose.

 

“Did you think I was going to line up for a side-by-side comparison?” Gabriel asks. His expression is exactly the kind that ends in biting kisses, in the sexual version of _shut up, no you shut up_. Sam’s neck bends without conscious thought, without permission, but he turns his face away in time.

 

 _Not a hint. Trap_.

 

Good to know. Better to know for sure. Best, best of all, to be able to come, but he can’t, can only strain and twist against Gabriel’s supporting hands, against the force of lips and tongue twice over.

 

Gabriel smirks at him, eyes bright and dark at once without actually glowing.

 

“Okay, fine,” Sam says, feigning acceptance, sincere in breathlessness. “Bed?”

 

Again, Gabriel hums in faux-consideration, all three at once, and Sam holds onto him too tightly, has to hold too tightly. His legs twitch themselves wider, toes flexing against a rug he’d rather not think about. Right-marked Gabriel rakes his eyes up and down Sam’s body, lingering low, and he brushes left-marked Gabriel’s hair back to better watch himself blowing Sam. “I like this view,” he decides. He lifts his hand, resumes stroking Sam’s cheek, and it’s a fight not to chase his fingers, to suck on them. “You can stay right where you are.”

 

“I’ll suck your dick,” Sam offers.

 

Gabriel laughs with his eyes. “Which one?”

 

“Your pick,” Sam says, because everything is a test now. A test of stamina against a test of deceit, and Sam can last. Sam can endure this.

 

“Mm, maybe you should get that side-by-side comparison after all,” Gabriel muses, and Sam starts nodding fast and hard. Because it’s the closest to cooperation he’ll get, because he’s going to prove his point, not because his mouth is empty and wrong even as his ass is slowly filled by questing licks and one slow, unrelenting push of a single finger.

 

“Please,” Sam says, because he knows Gabriel likes it when he pretends to beg. Not when he begs: when he pretends to.

 

“Please what?” Gabriel asks.

 

“Need your dick in my mouth,” Sam gasps, has to gasp as the finger in his ass finally makes it past the next knuckle. “ _Fuck_. Gabriel, _please_.”

 

“Do you _really_ want it?” Gabriel asks, dragging out the word the same way he drags out a long, slow suck up Sam’s dick, lips tight and clinging to the head.

 

The noise Sam makes is absurd, patently ridiculous, so of course it’s what Gabriel wants. The finger in his ass thrusts in, sharp and glorious. The fingertip doesn’t touch his prostate, not yet, but the finger’s base pulls at his rim, pulls at his ass, pulls and promises, and Sam must have forgotten how much he loves getting fucked, or maybe no one in college had ever done it right. Ruby would have been more than happy to peg him, if he’d asked, or possess a man – and that’s where Sam shuts down that line of thought, slamming it away with both hands on left-marked Gabriel’s head. His hips beg in two directions, pleading in their trembling.

 

“That bad, huh, kiddo?”

 

“Get undressed,” Sam orders, as much as anyone can order while held aloft by two hands, held in place by two more, one welcome on his dick and one sneaking into his ass. If his legs are supporting any of his weight, it’s only by dint of their length against Gabriel’s kneeling height. “Just, clothes, no.”

 

“How eloquent,” right-marked Gabriel praises, stroking Sam’s hair back behind his ear. His fingers tug at Sam’s earlobe, almost pinching, and Sam’s head turns into the touch like a cat.

 

Sam reaches down, tugging at an empty belt loop on Gabriel’s jeans. “Dick. Mouth. _Now_.”

 

“What a sweet talker you are, baby,” Gabriel croons, up in his face with distracting lips Sam won’t let himself kiss.

 

“Give it to me.”

 

“Okay,” Gabriel says brightly and shoves two more fingers up Sam’s ass at once.

 

Sam shouts. His eyes shut or haze out or simply disconnect, because for a long instant, he can’t see. He shouts again at a sudden wetness, a different slickness than the saliva already coating the way. He’s never going to get used to it, the way Gabriel can magic lube up his ass.

 

“Tell me you’re, _oh_ , you’re, uh, soundproofing the room,” Sam begs, actually and truly begs.

 

“Could be,” Gabriel says, which means he is, which means he isn’t. Sam can’t fucking tell right now. Not good, not good at all, and still so fucking good, so amazing up his ass and around his dick and even the return to nipple play.

 

Fumbling, Sam pops the button of Gabriel’s fly. Gabriel slides his own hand down into his jeans first before Sam unzips him because, yeah, zipper teeth and commando erections, not the best of friends. Even so, the practical combination comes across as a deliberate tease, an unveiling. First the fly parts and the jeans sag, and then Gabriel removes his hand, or turns his hand, or uses his hand. Today, it’s the last, the protective covering turning to a provocative stroke.

 

Sam’s dry mouth waters.

 

“Now how should I arrange you?” Gabriel muses. Below, he pulls off Sam’s dick with an overly loud _pop_ Sam used to hate and now can’t get enough of. Amazing what the associative power of blowjobs can accomplish.

 

“On the bed,” Sam shoots back as best he can, less like a gun, more like an improvised slingshot.

 

“Yeah, but _how_ on the bed?” left-marked Gabriel asks, rubbing his cheek against Sam’s shaft. His hand not holding Sam up cradles the rest of his dick, a jarringly affectionate gesture meant to be jarring. “Should I… lay you down? Fuck your face? Get you up against the headboard, fuck your face that way? Maybe I should sit, let you go to town.” Under his speech is the audible squelch of lube and fingers, and it shouldn’t be as good as it is.

 

“Let me,” Sam says, knowing the dangers of a direct request. Anything direct has to be good enough to warrant it. “Gonna ride you with my mouth.” He rocks back, rocks forward, watches himself slide between Gabriel’s cheek and palm until Gabriel turns his head and kisses him there. “Gonna fuck your dick like I’m fucking your hand. Gonna, gonna…” His mind scrambles, reaches. “Gonna show you how bad I need to kiss you.”

 

Left-marked Gabriel’s eyes snap up at that. Avoiding his gaze doesn’t work, because right-marked Gabriel is looking at him just the same way, smug and knowing and blatantly ignoring the gaping mess of vulnerability Sam’s stepped in.

 

“Yeah, you do,” both marked Gabriels tell him even as the unmarked twists his fingers and returns his tongue to Sam’s twitching hole.

 

“Please,” Sam says, voice breaking, needing the change of position, the change of subject.

 

The tongue leaves his hole but the fingers stay, even as Gabriel stands behind him, in front of him. One hand still in his ass, one on his dick, the fact of that contact unchanging, unrelenting, undeniable. Sam has to take his own weight again, has to stand, has to _walk_ to the bed, and Gabriel never relents even though walking with an erection is hard enough, let alone with three, no, four fingers up the ass. Gabriel digs them in deeper with every step.

 

Left-marked Gabriel sits on the bed, scoots himself back. Right-marked Gabriel does no such thing, instead circling around Sam even as unmarked Gabriel shifts as well. Those fingers slide out of his hole with a wet trickle of lube. His rim spasms at the emptiness in the split second before right-marked Gabriel drops down in turn with fingers and tongue and enthusiasm in equal measure. Shucking his shirt, unmarked Gabriel sits on the bed beside the left-marked Gabriel. Both of them on the bed have their jeans on, both of them reach over and unfasten the other’s fly, and Sam falls forward onto his elbows.

 

He butts his head against unmarked Gabriel’s stomach, his chest pressing down uncomfortably against Gabriel’s knees, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter because his mouth is finally as full as his ass. He licks and listens. He sucks and studies.

 

Behind him, right-marked Gabriel tugs his ass to the side, forcing his feet to shuffle. Only one of his knees can press against the side of the bed, a tease of support. He presses his forearm across Gabriel’s thighs in the pretense of a restraining touch.

 

Much too soon, his jaw starts to warn him of his own limits. He pulls off, mimicking Gabriel’s obnoxious _pop_ , and left-marked Gabriel laughs even as unmarked Gabriel groans. Right-marked Gabriel bites him on the ass and crooks his fingers and this is, by far, Sam’s favorite reaction of the three.

 

He switches to left-marked Gabriel, half-crawling into his lap, straining for it while right-marked Gabriel holds his hips in place, forcing him into an odd angle instead of a direct approach. Unmarked Gabriel pets his hair and strokes his back, and Sam should really be paying attention to the ways they respond differently, to whether they even do, but his ass is humming with the tingle of Grace-based healing as Gabriel stretches him open and open and so much more open than necessary. Sam pulls off just long enough to say, “Go ahead, I can take it already.”

 

“Yeah, but you’ve had bigger, haven’t you?” unmarked Gabriel reminds him, because apparently that’s one joke that’s literally going to come back to get him in the ass. “You can take more than this.” His stroking hand draws Sam’s eye, even while Sam works his mouth down an identical member.

 

“And you’re going to,” right-marked Gabriel adds from behind him. He presses one final kiss to Sam’s rim before shifting, before rising, before his body rubs against the back of Sam’s thighs in one smooth motion. His erection nudges up beneath Sam’s, hot and strangely dry against spit-slicked skin. Gabriel drapes himself against Sam’s back, one hand dropping low to almost tickle at the head of Sam’s dick. “What do you say, Sammy?”

 

Sam groans around Gabriel’s dick, under the hands pushing his hair out of the way, over the thighs hard beneath him, under the body hot against his back.

 

“It’s rude to talk with your mouth full,” Gabriel chimes from above him, and the weight leaves his back in a motion sudden and cold, right before a hot smack slaps Sam’s ass cheek. His dick bobs with the force, hitting his stomach.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam agrees, the word punched out of him.

 

“Oooh,” Gabriel says. “Maybe I should spank you more.”

 

“No,” Sam gasps. “You should fuck me.”

 

“If you insist,” Gabriel replies, and does. He slides in and it’s barely a stretch. It’s smooth and squishy with lube, but it could be slicker and then it is, maybe miraculously appearing lube, maybe a surge of pre-come. Maybe both, and Sam’s mouth goes dry again before Gabriel takes his head by the hair and pulls him back to task.

 

The blowjobs don’t even compare. Beyond the taste and the velvet softness of hard flesh, there’s no way to set the one against the other. The first had a modicum of technique, but this one, it’s all Sam can do to keep his mouth closed around him, all he can do to catch himself in Gabriel’s lap while Gabriel drives into him from behind. He’s no closer to figuring this out, is maybe further away than ever, and there’s a part of him that goes quiet and loose and stops caring.

 

The rest of him gets stubborn as hell.

 

He pushes himself up on his elbows. He clenches his ass. He rolls his hips and he relaxes his throat and he manages to pull off before he has to cough. He gets back to work, to play, and squeezes Gabriel’s ass, hand wedged tight between skin and the starchy motel comforter. As Sam sucks him, left-marked Gabriel lies down entirely, one hand curled over his stomach, one tossed above his head. Unmarked Gabriel leans over Sam, lightly tugging at his hair until Sam’s head tilts, until the cockhead in his mouth presses up against the inside of his cheek. Licking his lips, Gabriel pets his face, then. Feels himself, his other self, through Sam’s cheek.

 

All the while, behind him, right-marked Gabriel drags himself through one slow thrust after another, each inexorable plunge followed by the agony of withdrawal. The emptiness leaves him gasping as much as the fullness, maybe more. Maybe it’s the anticipation, maybe the over-stimulation, maybe it’s everything, all together, all too much. That barrier of Gabriel’s making keeps Sam’s body staunchly away from the orgasm Gabriel won’t stop pushing him towards. It almost helps that none of them are touching his dick right now, almost helps that his back aches with the position.

 

“So,” Gabriel drawls from above him. “Who’s the real one?”

 

“Fuck you,” Sam swears breathlessly, pulling off only to go right back down.

 

Beneath him, Gabriel laughs a moan, a ridiculous, toe-curling sound. Behind Sam, he works another finger in alongside his dick, and Sam groans at the return to stretching. It slides in, nearly, nearly, and there’s another surge of lube inside him. Sam can’t keep up the suction of his mouth, can’t manage more than presses of the tongue, pushing the head of Gabriel’s dick up against his soft palate.

 

“Time to move, I think,” unmarked Gabriel decides, but it’s the other two who change position. From behind him, right-marked Gabriel slides his hands under Sam’s armpits and hauls him up, _impales_ him, still standing until he isn’t, until the room spins and Sam slams down on his dick even harder, _skewered_ like his prostate is the center of his being. Sam keens, pre-come leaking, dripping, slicking his hand as he frantically works his erection for the relief Gabriel won’t allow him. As right-marked Gabriel sits on the bed with Sam atop him, left-marked Gabriel climbs off, turning to say facingSam, and he drops to his knees, not to swallow Sam back down, but to press his lips to Sam’s already swollen rim.

 

Unmarked Gabriel reaches for one of Sam’s legs, hauls it to the side so his foot hooks against the outside of right-marked Gabriel’s ankle, so Sam’s knee rests over Gabriel’s. Nodding, stimulated beyond words, Sam does the same with his other leg, spreading them wide, and while there are no promises in Gabriel’s dirty praises, there’s still pleasure.

 

Beneath him, right-marked Gabriel keeps up the perverted ramblings, words like _hot_ and _tight_ and _good,_ and there’s a part of Sam that tries to pick it up, tries to babble that he _is_ good, that he wants to be, that he’s good and will be better, and it has nothing to do with sex, only the short-circuiting that sex brings. He has no idea if he’s actually saying anything, and he doesn’t want to know. He only wants the hands soothing down his chest, the fingers joining the dick up his ass, the lips praising the skin of his back and the sweat of his temples.

 

“You ready to take me?” left-marked Gabriel asks in front of him. He laughs when Sam nods, a rapid, lolling motion. He smacks kisses against the inside of Sam’s thighs, one and the other, back and forth. “You’re getting there.”

 

Sam drops his hands in the least subtle hint he has, massaging his balls between his fingers until Gabriel rolls his eyes and takes them into his mouth.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam praises. He loops an arm around unmarked Gabriel’s waist and tugs him close, has to get his mouth on _something_ , even just a chest. Gabriel pets his hair and sucks his balls and fucks his ass, and Sam is ruined, Sam is _gone,_ Sam is riding an archangel on a cheap motel bed, and he _still can’t come_.

 

“Nearly there,” Gabriel tells him, unmarked Gabriel, entirely naked and not even touching his own erection. He’s just there, warm and close and tempting while the other two work Sam past the point of sanity.

 

That’s three fingers and a dick now, that has to be enough, that has to be more than enough, the stretch, the pull, the fullness. Sam quivers on them, tries to work his hips down, but Gabriel catches him and holds him still.

 

“Just hang on,” Gabriel instructs, breath hot at the base of Sam’s neck. Below, left-marked Gabriel relinquishes Sam’s balls, giving them and Sam’s dick one final oral once-over before he rises up. The head of his dick matches his lips, red and wet and stroking across Sam’s skin in the worst kind of tease. Lips on his shoulder, an erection across the inside of his thighs. “Ease into it,” Gabriel murmurs.

 

“I know how to get fucked,” Sam tells him, and Gabriel huffs a laugh in surround sound.

 

“Yeah, you do,” Gabriel agrees. “Lift up a little.”

 

The instruction is more warning than command: before Sam can try to move, right-marked Gabriel hooks his hands under Sam’s thighs and tugs him up. The pressure in his ass, consuming and constant since they sat, eases into blatant dissatisfaction. Then left-marked Gabriel eases in, erection in hand, and nudges at where Sam is both full and empty. There’s another wet rush of lube inside him and Sam falls forward, hands twitching against Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel hauls him back, pushes him back, guides him back against the other Gabriel’s chest. Almost involuntarily, he follows the gaze of the Gabriel in front of him, stares down and sees it before he feels it, the breach, the entry, the everything.

 

Noise wells out of Sam’s throat, but there are no words. There are none left, only the sensations of pressure and pleasure and trembling. Gabriel eases in one dick at a time, and there’s a mass of murmuring around him, almost gentle commands to _take it, just like that_ and _relax, open up_ and _feel how good that is_. His thighs ache, too far spread, but it’s a pale comparison to the sensation in his ass, through his ass. His skin burns with the stretch, with the contact of Gabriel’s body and Gabriel’s body and Gabriel’s body. His mouth hungers for the reassurance of lips, so empty even while he’s so full.

 

He tries to call out, tries to say nothing more than Gabriel’s name, but that’s when Gabriel moves, both Gabriels inside him move, one up, one out, and the sound breaks before the end of the first syllable.

 

Gabriel stops, then.

 

Gabriel stares at him, a laugh twisting his mouth.

 

“Whuh?” Sam asks, pulling at him.

 

“Did you just yell ‘gay’?” left-marked Gabriel asks in front of him, snickering. The shake of laughter goes all the way down, against Sam’s thighs, into Sam’s hole. Beside him, unmarked Gabriel adds, “I mean, it is pretty gay, but I think we’re a _bit_ past the point of someone needing to say it.”

 

“Your name’s too long,” Sam complains.

 

“Oh, please,” Gabriel huffs. “You’re one to talk, Samuel Winchester.”

 

“Okay, Gabe,” Sam says with all the sass he still retains, and _that’s_ when Gabriel starts to fuck him.

 

It’s, god. Gabriel pushes and pulls inside him, the two dicks stretching his rim even farther, and he could cry with how good it is, how much. It’s the kind of good that has nothing to do with his own erection, not when the pressure in his ass means he can’t sustain it. He’s aroused out of his mind but his blood flow won’t obey. He strokes his dick anyway, less to coax it back and more to feel the flood of pre-come, more to hide the wilting hardness with his hand. His brain latches onto one thought, one fear, the idea that if Gabriel sees him soft, he might stop, and that can’t happen, it can’t, please, no.

 

But Gabriel knows, because of course Gabriel knows. He rocks into Sam from the front, holds him tight from behind. It mounts and builds and Sam drips with lube and pre-come, the relentless prostate stimulation provoking both endlessly. By the time Sam comes, there won’t be anything left, only buzzing pleasure in a fucked out human form.

 

His back sits flush against Gabriel’s chest, comforting contact, Gabriel a literal backdrop of support. He holds Sam’s legs open with warm hands, helps Sam fight against the limits of his own shaking body. Standing in front of him, leaning in, Gabriel keeps moving, their chests almost brushing, their mouths almost meeting, and something about it nags at him, something more than the knowing way Gabriel watches his mouth. His hands dig into Sam’s hips, holding him, keeping him in exactly the right spot to be fucked.

 

Sam tears his eyes away, forces himself to keep them open. Beside him, unmarked Gabriel keeps up the soothing touches, fingers caressing everywhere the other two neglect. He strokes Sam’s neck, caresses his chest, his arms. Slowly, he works his way down until his hand closes over Sam’s around his dick. His forehead nudges Sam’s and his breath smells like, of all things, saltwater taffy.

 

They stare at each other, eyes hooded, Sam panting for air. Gabriel’s other hand touches his face and it’s almost more than Sam can stand, to not kiss him. He could. So easily.

 

Their noses brush.

 

“Looking good, kiddo,” Gabriel murmurs, pulling Sam’s gaze back down to his mouth. The moment feels so still despite the two bodies working into him, despite the presence along his back and the temptation down his front.

 

“More,” Sam tells him with what’s left of his breath.

 

Gabriel grins. “Yeah?”

 

Sam nods, or maybe he just rubs the tip of his nose against Gabriel’s.

 

“You gonna kiss me first?” Gabriel asks.

 

Sam shakes his head. More brushing. More bumping. Eyes still on Gabriel’s mouth.

 

Licking his lips, Gabriel lifts his hand to touch his fingers to Sam’s face. Sam closes his mouth around them immediately. It’s not the same, but still better than nothing.

 

Gabriel’s expression turns almost fond, but then again, that’s just what he looks like when horny. “Ready?”

 

Sam hums around his fingers and the true fucking begins. What came before was a preliminary, was a courtesy, an adjustment period. This is hard and fast and friction and grunting groans buried in his shoulder. This is slick hands over his own heaving chest. This is so much, too much, not enough, and Sam gives himself over. He gives himself until he’s sore, until he’s shaking uncontrollably, until he’s abruptly fine once more, a blasphemous divine intervention. It’s tantric sex of exhaustion, pleasure numbing into background sensation until it spikes, until a bite of pain or a startling slap.

 

Finally, the need to hold overpowers the need for something in his mouth, against his mouth. Sam reaches, pulls, and it’s futile. The Gabriel in front of him drives into him, fucks into him, but he doesn’t linger close, doesn’t ever match the languid counterpoint of the Gabriel at his back, beneath his thighs. He keeps distance, more distance than he needs for movement and, as if waking from a wet dream, Sam’s mind latches on.

 

The distance. The angle.

 

He grabs left-marked Gabriel by the shoulder and tries to tug him close to no avail. He switches hands, switches shoulders and, yes, that works, that’s allowed, that slight tilt of the body, this angle. Sam chokes on a laugh and comes out with a moan.

 

This isn’t the distance of sex. It’s the distance of _porn_. It’s the angled body, the space for the camera, but the gap isn’t toward the unmarked Gabriel.

 

Sam sees it, sharp and clear and abruptly blindingly obvious.

 

“Lemme kiss you.”

 

The thrusting slows, but it doesn’t stop. It’s a gradual grind against his prostate, a slow shifting between his thighs.

 

“Oh?” says the Gabriel in front of him.

 

Sam plants a shaking hand on his chest and pushes him back. It takes a second, but Gabriel moves, carefully where he slides out of Sam. Both of them hiss, but the Gabriel behind Sam takes the moment to reposition Sam on his lap. Unmarked Gabriel crowds forward and frowns when Sam pushes him back too.

 

“One second,” Sam says, and it is awful, pulling off, standing up. His legs protest but endure. As if to be contrary, his erection returns as his blood flow straightens itself out, but that only makes it more difficult to move. Right-marked Gabriel keeps his hands on him as Sam stands, the prelude to turning Sam back to him for that kiss, but Sam pulls away farther.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the Gabriels asks behind him, but Sam doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate despite the ratty motel rug under his bare feet and the lube dripping down his thighs. His legs twitch and tremble, but they don’t give way.

 

Chest still heaving, he stops in front of the armchair and reaches out to take hold of one solid, invisible shoulder.

 

“Did you ever even get up?” Sam asks.

 

Abruptly, the empty armchair is far less empty. Eyebrows raised high, expression impressed, Gabriel looks up at him, fully dressed.

 

Sam glances back over his shoulder at the trio still on the bed, all three sporting the same expression.

 

“What gave me away?” Gabriel asks from the armchair.

 

Standing is very difficult, but Sam successfully doesn’t throw himself onto Gabriel’s lap. “You kept angling me off-center,” Sam says. “Like I was being displayed.”

 

“Only a _little_ ,” Gabriel says.

 

“Plus the equal rotation of roles,” Sam adds. “You don’t operate like that. You’re either center stage or carefully hidden.”

 

“Huh,” Gabriel says. He tilts his head, makes a little nod, and ultimately gives Sam a slow clap. “You ever try turning that brain off to have some fun?”

 

“This is fun,” Sam tells him, ass trembling around nothing, lube and sweat drying on his skin.

 

Gabriel grins up at him. “Good,” he says, and stands up for his kiss.

 

Sam grins back, leans in, and whips around to instead lay hands and lips on the invisible shape behind him. The shape stays invisible, and the parted lips under his don’t move. But Sam is right, he knows he’s right, because Gabriel wouldn’t take losing this argument so gracefully.

 

“You were getting ready to yell ‘wrong’ in my ear, weren’t you?” he only half-asks. Through the seemingly empty space before him, he sees the trio on the bed ripple with a wave of blue light and vanish, their faces frozen, eyes all equally startled. Sam doesn’t need to glance behind him at the armchair to know the illusion there is gone as well.

 

The air shimmers slightly and Gabriel is there, visible and staring. It’s one of the rare, unnerving times he looks like an angel, frowning and inhuman and still, and this is how Sam knows he’s right.

 

“You called my bluff,” Gabriel says, sounding like he means to sound annoyed.

 

“You only _act_ like an observer,” Sam replies. “Had to be a double-bluff. Especially if you were dropping hints at a fourth option. You knew I’d figure that much out.”

 

Gabriel stares harder, head tilting away like Sam is something dangerous.

 

The ground doesn’t tremble, but it should.

 

“Fine,” Gabriel spits out, the sore loser Sam was expecting, the bitter glare of an angel trapped behind fire. “You win. Happy?”

 

“I will be when you finish fucking me,” Sam says, and there is a fraught, tilting moment while Gabriel decides.

 

It’s a long moment, measured in heartbeats Sam can hear inside his ears.

 

Finally, Gabriel rolls his eyes and sighs, his shoulders joining in on the motion. “So demanding.”

 

“I have addiction problems and an increasingly high standard for sex,” Sam tells him. “Fuck me.”

 

“Well, aren’t we self-aware,” Gabriel mocks, and Sam kisses him then, has to. The skin beneath his hands goes from clothed to bare in one happy instant. Whether the next moments remain happy is yet to be seen, but Sam does his best, kissing to distract, not to pacify.

 

“Fuck me,” Sam repeats against his lips, one hand combing through Gabriel’s hair, the other low and insistent at the small of his back. “C’mon, please.”

 

“Mm, nah,” Gabriel hums, a very specific glint in his eyes. “Dropping down from two to one this quickly, little on the disappointing side.”

 

“Personal experience?” Sam asks, harder still at the image. He shifts forward, nudging against Gabriel’s stomach. He presses his thigh against Gabriel’s answering semi and quickly brings his hand down there instead.

 

Gabriel smirks. At the question or the handjob, Sam’s not certain. Probably both. “I could tell you that story instead,” Gabriel says and there’s a split second where Sam can’t remember what Gabriel means by _instead_.

 

“Sexy story now, Death story later?” Sam suggests.

 

“Greedy,” Gabriel calls him, and there’s a bite to it, to Sam’s refusal to relinquish a prize Gabriel still doesn’t wholly want to give.

 

“So greedy,” Sam replies. “Fuck me.”

 

Gabriel’s frustration subsides under snickering. He wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, one hand low and getting lower, fingers slip-sliding against skin at once sore, oversensitive and needful. “How about this instead?” Gabriel says.

 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, something abruptly in his hand, that something pushing past Sam’s still loose rim, pushing and pushing and sliding up inside, cool and slick and maybe silicon and definitely ribbed. Sam groans long and loud at the unrelenting thickness, the unforgiving toy. It presses up against his abused prostate, and Sam could fucking cry, even though he’s not sure what from.

 

The toy – plug? – has a flared base that presses up against Sam’s crack, his ass, and Gabriel slaps the base once, twice, digging it in up inside of him, and Sam can only hold on for the ride Gabriel gives him. It’s huge without quite the blissful agony from before, slight enough that blood flow isn’t an issue. His erection, painfully hard at the change, is proof enough of that.

 

“Sit,” Gabriel tells him, and Sam’s groaning before he even complies. The armchair is worn at best, but the seat is wide enough for a grown man to sit with another grown man on top of him, legs folded alongside the first man’s thighs.

 

Without prompting, Sam scoots down, and not just for the drag on the toy’s base, for the flare of friction against the heated skin of his ass. It’s an awful position for his back, amazing for everything else. He holds his dick by the base while Gabriel lifts up, and they fit together in one smooth, practiced motion.

 

Head thrown back, Gabriel lets out a long, appreciative groan before he starts to move. There’s another burst of lube, two bursts, one around Sam’s dick, one inside him. Sam swears at that, will never stop swearing at that.

 

Gabriel rocks forward, one hand around himself, the other around Sam’s neck, and they kiss, they finally kiss. Sam chases his mouth higher when he pulls back, pursues it in a way he never has to with the plug or Gabriel’s ass or, even, any number of illusions. He plays at begging and Gabriel plays at indulging him. It’s warm presses and a playful tongue. It’s shared air, as hot between their mouths as it is between their rocking bodies. It’s his favorite part, always his favorite part. He kisses his way toward orgasm, thrusting up into Gabriel, torturing himself on the toy.

 

He’s closer, and closer, and then he’s there, right there, finally there. The toy swells inside him, except it doesn’t, except that’s the clenching of his own ass as his balls draw up. That’s the warning, the point of no return, and Sam drags Gabriel down against him properly even as his hips stutter up. That ass in his lap, that tight heat around him. That mouth against his.

 

He comes. Hard and long and almost as drawn out as their fucking. He comes so hard he can’t breathe, can’t hope to open his eyes, can’t tell if the pulsing in his ass is his normal rhythmic clenching or the surprise of a vibrator. The clenching spreads up, wraps around his dick, and that’s Gabriel, that’s Gabriel coming, that’s a fresh layer of damp against Sam’s stomach and a new round of kisses, once sharp, now lazy.

 

Their bodies rock to a halt. Slowly, taking much longer, their mouths do the same. His forehead against Gabriel’s, Sam catches his breath, and Gabriel watches him. Everything begins to cool and grow sticky, and Sam needs to get the plug out of his ass. He still can’t bring himself to move. The way Gabriel settles in his lap even after he pulls free, doesn’t help.

 

Sam kisses him again. Lightly, without tongue, and Gabriel lets himself be kissed for a time.

 

“So,” Gabriel says, after. After Sam’s mouth has tired itself out. After Gabriel snaps them clean and whisks them over to the bed. After Sam sprawls out naked on sheets suspiciously comfortable for a motel this crappy. After a lot of things.

 

“Mmhm,” Sam hums, opening his eyes a sliver. There’s not much to see as the big spoon, only the back of Gabriel’s head. Sam’s hand on Gabriel’s chest can only report the dubious hint of Gabriel’s heartbeat. Sam’s other hand is well on its way to falling asleep, his arm as well, which is probably the real reason why Gabriel insists on Sam being the big spoon. Or maybe he really does like being cuddled that much. For all of Sam’s bluffing, there’s a lot he’s still not sure about.

 

“Death gave me his ring for a promise,” Gabriel tells him, voice flat. “The key’s to Big Bro’s cage in exchange for a favor.”

 

Sam says nothing. Doesn’t move. Merely holds, merely waits. Questions bubble up on his tongue, flood the inside of his mouth, and he swallows all of them down.

 

Gabriel shifts under his arm, against his chest. He looks back over his shoulder at Sam. “You want to know what it was?”

 

“You know I do,” Sam answers quietly.

 

Gabriel untangles their legs and rolls over entirely. Sam’s hand slides over his back. Not for the first time, the feeling of sharp shoulder blades sends his mind to thoughts of wings, but now isn’t the time to be distracted.

 

“I promised,” Gabriel says, over-enunciating, “to personally make sure my brother goes back to Hell.”

 

There’s a pause where Sam doesn’t say, _you already promised us that_.

 

There’s a pause where Sam thinks _, no, you said you’d help_ us _do that._

 

There’s a pause where Gabriel looks at him like the concepts of sympathy and pity are stupid, absolutely moronic, and his eyes dare Sam towards either.

 

“You still care about him,” Sam says instead.

 

“Well, he was never a dick to _me_ ,” Gabriel says. With a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he adds, “Not any more than I was to him, anyway.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice that Sam doesn’t know what to make of. It’s not the way Dean talks about their mom, but it’s close enough for Sam to think of the comparison.

 

“Are you going to be able to?” Sam asks.

 

Gabriel rolls his eyes and presses his head down harder on his pillow. “Don’t tell me you want to talk about feelings now.”

 

“No, I meant, y’know. Practically,” Sam lies. “We’re going to be able to open the Cage, but getting Lucifer into it, that’s another story.”

 

“Yeah, Death pointed that out,” Gabriel says. “Total surprise, but it turns out the guy’s a stickler for details.” He sighs, somehow forcing a groan into that shape. “So, yeah, it sucks.”

 

“What are you planning?”

 

Gabriel lets out an actual groan at that. “What makes you think I’ve got a plan?”

 

“Personal experience,” Sam counters, lifting his hand from Gabriel’s side to gesture at the world in general.

 

Very faintly, Gabriel smiles. “Maybe a little.”

 

“Illusions?” Sam suggests. “Come at him from the side?”

 

“I was thinking that,” Gabriel says. “But.”

 

“But?”

 

“If _you_ could see through that while fucked out of your mind, Luci’s going to figure it out in ten seconds or less,” Gabriel says.

 

“So that means direct confrontation,” Sam says.

 

“I’m probably gonna die,” Gabriel tells him flatly. Like he expects nothing else. Like he doesn’t know how the pronouncement makes Sam’s stomach twist and drop.

 

“We’ll figure something out,” Sam promises, trying not to hold him tighter, because that would be ridiculous.

 

Gabriel scoffs in his face.

 

“I mean it,” Sam insists. “If we can surprise you, we can surprise him. We’ll figure something out.”

 

“It’s cute, the way you play at hope,” Gabriel says. He flicks Sam lightly on the chest, over the heart.

 

“Because we’ll figure something out,” Sam says a third time. “Maybe you could go yell at Heaven or something. Tell them God is out the picture, that Michael’s forcing the Apocalypse forward without Him.”

 

“Eh, the yelling part might be fun,” Gabriel muses.

 

“Or–”

 

“Okay, we are not having a post-coital battle planning session,” Gabriel tells him. “Not allowed, too unsexy.” He shifts onto an elbow, starting to get up, and Sam catches him with the beginnings of a touch. Gabriel stops at the brush of fingertips, has stopped entirely by the time Sam’s palm settles against his arm.

 

“Okay,” Sam says, thumb rubbing circles against skin. “Tell me your double penetration story instead? Your best one,” he amends, because there’s got to be more than one.

 

“ _Well_ ,” Gabriel wheedles, stretching the word. As if granting Sam an immense favor, he flops back down beside him. “It _is_ a good story.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, arranging Sam on his back like so many pillows before lying on him. His bare leg slides between Sam’s, thigh nestling against his soft penis, and it is much more comfortable than it should be. “Just keep in mind, a key detail to this story is that it was a _man_ named Horse, because he was hung like one. A cock that makes yours look like a toothpick, that’s the scale we’re working with here. Again, a _man_ named Horse and his mason friend. The only reason those details got altered is because Freya is a complete _asshole_.”

 

“Wait, what?” Sam says with a laugh, and Gabriel starts over at the beginning, the real beginning, and after that – after the snickering, the perving, the round two that might be a round three – after that, well. They talk.


End file.
